A-Runing the Winter Sun (5 December 2013)

 - Montague Whitsel

The silence of Winter has come_

and everywhere my mystic’s pallet

is coloured in Plum Delight,

tinctured of a Mulberry-Sugared Sight.

The White Sun of Winter has come

infusing silence into life’s eaves.

And so I walk amongst naked trees,

my thoughts adorned_

               of Cranberried prophecies.                          1

The leaves no longer rustle on the bough,

but, morbid, process across the sod_

lichens and mosses and fungal beds

receiving them as if visitants

                from sylvan heavens.

Oak leaves breathe their last and fall_

surrendering earthward in rust brown gleam,

knowing in their spent dead cells –

that the Merry-Go-Rounds of Summer

                         are gone.                                           2

The White Sun of Winter has come

to grace us with its silent hum_

striating the skies above with beams

like icicle flares in a dream’s speculum.

Patterning the woodland floor so solemn,

white light pierces tangled copses,

tickling the misguided cares of mortals;

chilling our hidden fears_

rendering them out as dis-spelled sums.                        3

The Silence of Winter has now come

and everywhere my mystic’s pallet

is coloured in Hollyberry light;

tinctured of an Ivy-oracled delight.

Leaves no more rustle

              upon denuded trees;

the ranns of time pass by in threes_

whilst I sing my mustering rune

               to the beat of an earthening tune!                4

Winter’s rhythmed silences are here,

rustling upon the open back porches

where Mabon keeps his rabbits_

ingratiating meaning into life’s sullen eaves.

He walks through a vale of imaginings,

his brow lighted by the Pale, Cold Sun_

as he sings to his rabbits in tunes

all captured of Brown-Sugared prophecies!

                         I sing along_                                       5

Yet leaves no more rustle upon the bough

but, as if mortality’s scion,

   process across the hardened sod_

lichens and mosses and fungal beds

receiving them

like visitants from some old god’s city.

Oak leaves breathe their last and fall_

surrendering earthward in a rusted gleam_

knowing, in their spent, dead cells—

that the Merry-Go-Rounds of Summer

                           _are gone.                                         6

The White Winter Sun has come

with Butterscotch Rum intimations_

having stirred our Frankincense hopes,

applying Myrrh

            to balm our ice-fascinated souls.

Ever-shining in the frosted heavens,

its light seeking out the waylaid

and soul-burdened_

the White Winter Sun proffers gold

proleptically_

Hope hidden within its prolepsis_                                                                             of a New Life to come!                                                7

Leaves no more rustle upon grey boughs,

        but – like a brown-red carpet

for the coming of the Spring Queen –

rune-out patterns with moss and lichens

and the fungal flowers that sleep

       beneath their weathering blanket

all foretelling the coming of New Sun

and the myriad dreams and imaginings

that will flurry forth with it_ suggesting that

       new Merry-go-Rounds of Summer

will one day come.                                                    8

Joyfull, Joyfull_ the New Sun comes,

glistening our souls and the sídhe

with the radiance of Mistletoed hopes!

Gladdening through the slanted blinds

         of ever more freighted lives –

New Sun comes with Sugared Plums

         to put a quick bustle in our steps

and green our sodden hearts;

lifting our eyes towards New Thresholds

as yet dusted with gleaming, icy snow.                        9

Hear the ancient invocation:

“Wait ye now upon New Sun’s Rising.”

So mote it be.

Finis.